Montalbano's First Case Read online

  And he told him how her mother thought she was shameless, and how they made her sleep in the pigsty.

  “Anyway, her father should be coming by the station tonight, so we’ll try to find out more about it. Has she eaten yet?”

  “Galluzzo brought her a sandwich. She didn’t touch it. And she didn’t even take a sip of her water.”

  “Sooner or later,” Montalbano said, “she’ll give in and start to eat and drink again. And then she’ll start talking.”

  “About the revolver …” Fazio began.

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “Sir, there wasn’t much to find out. It’s a Cobra, a serious weapon. American. And on top of that, the serial number has been filed down.”

  “In other words, you’re telling me that it’s the weapon of hardened criminals.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “And so somebody gave it to Rosanna so she would shoot someone else.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “But who’s this someone?”

  “Dunno.”

  “And who was she supposed to shoot?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Fazio, you’re supposed to find out everything there is to know about this girl.”

  “It won’t be easy, sir. From what I understand, her family is isolated from the rest of the town. They don’t have any friends, only acquaintances.”

  “Give it a try anyway. Oh, and another thing. Send somebody to her house to ask her mother for a change of clothes. She can give it to her husband, and he’ll bring it here.”

  He went to check on her through the slot in the holding room door. Rosanna was standing with her forehead pushed against the wall. The sandwich was still untouched, and so was the glass of water. That was a problem. He called Galluzzo.

  “Listen, has she asked to go to the bathroom?”

  “No, sir. I was the one who suggested it, but she didn’t even answer me. Sir, I think that …”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think she’s throwing a tantrum.”

  “A tantrum?”

  “Yes, sir. Her body may be that of woman’s, her ID may say she’s over eighteen, but I bet she’s still a child inside her head.”

  “You mean she’s retarded?”

  “No, sir. Just a child. She’s mad because you’ve prevented her from doing what she wanted to do.”

  Montalbano had a really crazy idea.

  “Let me in the holding room. Then open the bathroom door and keep it open.”

  He went into the cell. She still had her forehead against the wall. He walked up beside her and started to yell at the top of his lungs, like one of those marine sergeants they show in American movies.

  “To the bathroom! Move it!”

  Rosanna was startled, and turned around, frightened. The inspector slapped her in the back of the head. The girl covered her neck with her hands, where she felt the pain as her eyes teared up. She raised her elbow in front of her face, as if she was expecting more blows. Galluzzo was right; she was just a child. The inspector didn’t let it affect him.

  “To the bathroom!”

  Half the station had shown up to see what was going on.

  “What happened? What’s going on?”

  “Go on! Get back to work!” Montalbano yelled, feeling like the veins in his neck were about to explode. “And you, get moving!”

  As if she were sleepwalking, the girl started moving, and stepped out the door.

  “This way,” said Galluzzo immediately.

  Rosanna went into the bathroom and closed the door. The inspector, who had never been in there, questioned Galluzzo with his eyes.

  “There’s no danger,” the officer said. “It doesn’t lock from the inside.”

  After a little while they heard the toilet flush. Rosanna opened the door, walked in front of them as if they weren’t there, entered the holding room, and went back to facing the wall. Facing the wall. A punishment. Rosanna was punishing herself.

  “Well, thank God that worked,” Galluzzo observed.

  “It’s not like I can do this every time she needs to go to the bathroom, Gallù,” Montalbano said angrily.

  He had the contents of Rosanna’s bag laid out across his desk and was now looking at them. A fake-leather wallet containing one folded ten-thousand-lira note, three one-thousand-lira notes, five five-hundred-lira coins, four one-hundred-lira coins, and one fifty-lira coin.

  But there was something else in the wallet that had nothing to do with money: a little piece, about four inches in length, of pink elastic. Perhaps it was a swatch to show a tailor.

  Rosanna kept the tickets she used on the way to Montelusa and back. She had six of them, and that meant that she had been waiting at the courtroom entrance on at least six different occasions.

  Her ID. An empty bottle of nail polish with some traces of the fluid staining the inside of the cap.

  And something weird: an envelope with no writing on it, containing the skeleton of a rose whose petals had all fallen off. And yet, thinking back on it, there was nothing weird about that rose. It was kept inside an envelope, but it could have just as easily been between the pages of a book, where most people put them. It was only that Rosanna, having no books, had put that rose, which clearly held some sentimental value, inside an envelope. And she brought it with her wherever she went. In conclusion, there was nothing out of the ordinary when it came to the contents of the woman’s bag. But Montalbano, for a moment, and only for a moment, thought of something strange, something that made those objects seem less obvious. But he couldn’t understand what it was exactly.

  That made him uneasy and nervous.

  He was gathering Rosanna’s things to put them in a drawer when the dispatcher showed up.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I have a gentleman here who claims to be your father.”

  “Patch him through.”

  “He’s here in the waiting room.”

  His father! Suddenly, and with a sense of shame, he remembered he hadn’t written to tell him about his promotion and transfer.

  “Let him in.”

  They hugged in the middle of the room, somewhat emotional, somewhat embarrassed. His father was dressed elegantly as usual and his movements were very elegant as well. He was the exact opposite of Montalbano, who would often look unkempt. They hadn’t seen each other in at least four months.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I read a newspaper article welcoming you to Vigata. And so, since I was in the neighborhood, I decided to stop by. But I can’t stay long.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No, nothing, thanks.”

  “How are you doing, Dad?”

  “I can’t complain. I’m retiring in a few years.”

  “What are you going to do then?”

  “I’m going into business with a friend of mine who owns a small vineyard.”

  “And what are you doing around here?”

  “This morning I went to visit your mother, to have her grave cleaned up. Today’s the anniversary—did you forget?”

  Yes, he had forgotten. All he remembered about his mother was a color, a sheaf of grain.

  “What do remember about your mother?”

  Montalbano hesitated a moment.

  “The color of her hair.”

  “It was a beautiful color. Anything else?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Good.”

  Montalbano swayed.

  “What do you mean?”

  This time his father was the one who hesitated.

  “Between your mother and I, there were … misunderstandings, arguments, fights … All my fault. I didn’t deserve a wife like your mother.”

  Montalbano felt embarrassed. He and his father had never been very close.

  “I really liked women.”

  The inspector didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you have any important cases at the moment?” his father ask
ed, clearly in an attempt to change the subject.

  The inspector was grateful.

  “No, nothing important. But I’ve stumbled onto a curious case …”

  And he told him all about Rosanna, emphasizing the girl’s inscrutability.

  “Can I see her?”

  Montalbano wasn’t expecting that kind of request.

  “Well, you know, Dad, I don’t think I’m allowed … oh well, let’s go.”

  He showed him the way, then checked through the slot. The girl was standing with her shoulders against the wall, staring right at the door. The inspector let his father take a look.

  He stood there a while, turned, then said, “It’s getting late, will you walk with me to the car?”

  Montalbano walked with him. They hugged affectionately, but they were still a bit embarrassed.

  “Come back soon, Dad!”

  “I will. Oh, Salvù, just one thing: Don’t trust her.”

  “Who?”

  “That girl. Don’t trust her.”

  He watched his father drive off as a bout of melancholy swept over him.

  Gerlando Monaco, Rosanna’s father, showed up at the station after dark, holding a plastic bag with a change of clothes for his daughter. It was impossible to tell his age, just as it was with his wife; work had twisted his body, dried and baked it, like a brick in a furnace. But, unlike his wife, he looked nervous and worried.

  “Why did you arrest her, eh?” was his first question.

  “She had a revolver.”

  Gerlando Monaco turned white, swayed, lost his breath, and reached for a chair on which he fell heavily.

  “Holy Mary! This girl will be the ruin of my house! A revolver! And who gave it to her?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Do you have any ideas?”

  “Ideas? Me?”

  His surprise was definitely sincere.

  “Listen, can you tell me why you make your daughter sleep in a pigsty?”

  Gerlando Monaco braced for impact, made a face somewhere between humiliation and offense, and lowered his eyes to the floor.

  “These are family things that are none of your business,” he murmured.

  “Look at me,” the inspector said firmly. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know immediately, you’ll be keeping your daughter company tonight.”

  “All right. My wife didn’t want her in our house anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “She got herself pregnant.”

  “Pregnant? At fifteen? Who did it?”

  “I don’t know. My wife doesn’t either. My wife beat her up good, but she still wouldn’t say who did it.”

  “And you didn’t suspect anyone?”

  “Sir, I get up before dawn and come home after dark. My wife looks after the younger children all day. Rosanna has been working as a housemaid since she was ten …”

  “So she never went to school?”

  “Never. She can’t read or write.”

  “What’s the name of the family your daughter worked for?”

  “What’s the name? She’s worked for a hundred different ones! And three years ago, when she got pregnant, the family she worked for was an elderly couple.”

  “How does Rosanna support herself now?”

  “She still works as a housemaid whenever she gets a chance. Especially in the summer, when there are a lot of strangers around.”

  “Who’s looking after Rosanna’s son, or daughter?”

  Gerlando Monaco gave him a confused look.

  “What son?”

  “Didn’t you just tell me Rosanna was pregnant?”

  “Ah. My wife took her to see a woman who’s a midwife to take care of it. But then she got that thing … what do you call it, when you keep bleeding.”

  “A hemorrhage.”

  “Yes. She looked like she was going to die. And maybe it would have been better if she had.”

  “Why did you force her to have an abortion?”

  “Be reasonable, sir. Wasn’t it bad enough to have a horrible daughter? Did we really need to add having a bastard for a grandchild?”

  When Gerlando Monaco left the room, Montalbano couldn’t get up. He felt a sharp pain in his stomach, as if a hand were grabbing his bowels and twisting them. Housemaid when she was only ten, illiterate, probably raped when she was fifteen, pregnant, beaten up, made to suffer a clumsy abortion, almost killed by the midwife, then back to being a housemaid, and forced to live in a pigsty. Even the holding room must have looked like a five-star hotel. Now, the question was: Was the inspector allowed to fantasize about letting her go, giving the revolver back to her, and telling to her shoot whomever she wanted?

  6

  He couldn’t go the whole day without eating just because Rosanna’s situation bothered him. At Trattoria San Calogero, first he inhaled about fifteen different seafood appetizers. He really didn’t mean to, but they were so light and delicious that they seemed to find their way into his mouth without the inspector noticing. How could he resist, especially if he didn’t eat anything at lunch? And here came the illumination. He signaled Calogero to come closer.

  “Listen, Calù. I’d like to have the grilled bass. But in the meantime, I’d like you to also prepare three red mullets alla livornese. Please make sure there is plenty of sauce. Have them delivered to the station about half an hour after I leave. Also send a little bit of bread and a bottle of water. Pack a knife, a fork, a glass, and a plate, all plastic.”

  “Good God, never.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because red mullet alla livornese is wasted if you put it on a plastic plate.”

  Once he returned to the half-deserted station, he went to check on Rosanna through the slot in the door. She was sitting on the mattress, with her hands on her knees. Her eyes, however, had lost their immobility, and now the girl seemed a little more relaxed. The sandwich was still untouched. The level of water in the glass had gone down slightly; perhaps she had wet her lips, which, by now, must have been parched.

  When the plate of red mullets arrived, the inspector had it placed on his office desk. He asked the guard for the key to the holding room, grabbed a chair, opened the door, set the chair down in front of the girl, and left the room, leaving the door open. She didn’t even move.

  He went back with the plate of red mullets and put it on the chair. He left again and came back with the plastic bag, which he threw on the mattress.

  “Your father brought you a change of clothes.”

  He left and came back with another chair, which he placed next to the first. By now, a light scent of red mullet alla livornese lingered in the holding room. He left and came back a bit later, with water, bread, and the silverware. The scent had intensified and had become quite provoking. Montalbano sat down and stared at the girl. Then he started to clean the red mullets, placing the heads and the bones on the empty plate that had been used as a cover.

  “Eat,” he said finally.

  The girl didn’t move, so the inspector picked up a piece of fish with a fork and delicately placed it on Rosanna’s sealed lips.

  “You want me to feed you?”

  He held the fork there, and like a parent does with a young child, accompanied the gesture with a nursery rhyme.

  “This is Rosanna’s little fish, and like a good girl, she’ll eat the whole dish.”

  Where the hell did those words come from? Fortunately none of his men were close enough to hear him; otherwise they would have thought he’d gone mad.

  She opened her lips just enough to let the fish through. She chewed and then swallowed. She shut her lips again and this time Montalbano gave her a piece of bread he had dipped in the sauce.

  “Now Rosanna eat some bread so you’ll feel well fed.”

  Those were horrible verses, and he was ashamed of them, but he wasn’t a poet and they nevertheless served their purpose. The girl chewed the bread and swallowed.

  “Water?” she asked.

  The in
spector filled a paper cup and handed it to her.

  “Do you think you can finish on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  Montalbano patted her lightly on the head and left, leaving the door open.

  And that was it! The girl had reestablished a connection with the world. Sooner or later, with a little bit of patience and kindness, she would tell them what she wanted to do with the revolver and, more importantly, who had given it to her. He let half an hour pass and then went back into the holding room. Rosanna had eaten everything and the plate looked like it had just been cleaned.

  “Use the bag.”

  The girl removed her change of clothes from the bag and put the plates and silverware in it. She kept the water bottle, which was still half full, and the cup.

  “Throw the sandwich in there too.”

  “Can I go to the bathroom?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Montalbano picked up the bag, walked out of the station, and threw it away in a dumpster. He killed a little more time by smoking a cigarette, enjoying the peaceful evening. He found Rosanna sitting up straight on the mattress. She must have freshened up while he had been outside, because she smelled of soap. She had also washed her clothes and hung them to dry on the back of one of the chairs. She had a strange look on her face, almost sensual. Montalbano sat in the chair.

  “Rosanna is a very beautiful name.”

  “Only the first part.”

  “You only like the first part of your name? Rosa? Because of the flower?”

  He remembered the dry rose he had found in an envelope inside her purse.

  “No. Because it’s a color.”

  “Do you like colors?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. Colors make me remember things.”

  He decided to change the subject; maybe this was finally the right moment.

  “Why don’t you tell me where you got that revolver?”

  The girl shut down immediately. She brought her legs up to her chest, hugging them with her arms. Her eyes went back to staring into the void. Montalbano realized he had lost. Although only in part, since he had managed to establish a first contact.

  “Good night.”

  She didn’t answer back. Montalbano grabbed the extra chair, brought it out of the room, and shut the door, trying to make as much noise as he could.